


Goodbye My Lover

by bluemadridista



Series: I'm Still Pretty Mad at Mario tbh [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Bayern München, Borussia Dortmund, Crying, Established Relationship, Heartbreak, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:24:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemadridista/pseuds/bluemadridista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an account of what might have happened when Mario told Marco he was leaving Dortmund for Munich.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye My Lover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KingFabulous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingFabulous/gifts), [Cescky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cescky/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is definitely really what happened because Gotzeus is real, but for legal reasons I'll say it's not.
> 
> The title comes from the song "Goodbye My Lover" by James Blunt (of which I also have no ownership). The song and a fanmade video featuring the song greatly influenced my decision to finally write this thing.

Marco had heard the rumours. Of course he had. He had always paid close attention to the transfer rumours, and was even more in tune with the ones relevant to his lover. It was unusual for the rumours to be so prevalent outside the transfer window. It was over two months before the window would open. The timing troubled him, Marco tried to ignore the rumours, and get on with his life. With the Champions League semi-final ahead, he had to keep his head in the game. Real Madrid would be a tough opponent. Dortmund couldn’t afford for one of their star players to have his mind more on a rumour about his lover than the task at hand.

He told himself that the rumours were only that. The same idiots that got their kicks from churning out baseless rumours every time the windows opened had just started a little early this time. That had to be the case. The rumours were always there, but nothing ever came of them. The same had even been said about him, but he was loyal to Dortmund. He would never leave. He had returned to his childhood club at the behest of his lover, and he was confident that they would end their careers there, together.

Then a couple of weeks before the semi-final match would take place, Mario stopped coming around. As the days went on, he refused to keep plans with Marco, and eventually he stopped calling or texting altogether. Just five days before the huge match against Real Madrid, Marco was going out of his mind. The rumours just kept coming. They were everywhere. Even reputable news sources were pushing the story that his lover was going to leave him.

On the afternoon of the 21st, Marco walked onto the training pitch the same way he had been recently - head down, arms crossed over his chest. Mario had even refused to speak to him at training lately. They had always trained together, but Mario had chosen to train with Lewy instead. Marco couldn’t focus on training at all. He couldn’t make a single goal. He tripped, twisted his ankle, and spent the rest of the session resting in medical.

He had nearly fallen asleep on the team doctor’s couch when someone entered the room. He pulled his headphones away from his ears, and craned his neck to see who had just entered. Mario had a guilty look on his face, but his mouth perked up at the corner like he was trying to smile. Marco jumped up from the couch. “Mario? Are you hurt?”

Mario shook his head. “No. I came to see you. How are you? Is it serious?”

“No. I’m fine. I was just resting. It feels fine, really. I…” Marco pulled his headphones off completely, and paused his iPod. He fidgeted nervously. “I didn’t expect you to come.”

Mario didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. The corners of his mouth tugged down in a frown. He turned and closed his hand around the door handle. “Come to my place after you shower. I’ll order some dinner for us.”

“Okay,” was all Marco could manage. After the last couple of weeks, it seemed such an odd request from Mario. Was he trying to apologize for being distant? Did this mean something much worse? Better? Was Mario hiding a surprise for him?

 

Marco’s stomach churned as he drove the familiar route from the training ground to Mario’s house. He had driven it so many times he couldn’t even keep count. He practically lived at Mario’s house. Not recently though. When he pulled into the driveway, it felt different. Nausea washed over him when he stepped out of the car. An ominous feeling surrounded him. That was something he had never felt at Mario’s house before. Mario’s house was home even more than his own house was. Mario was home. It all felt different somehow. He considered turning around, climbing back into his car, and leaving, but he knew he couldn’t. Mario probably already knew he was there. He had a sense, he told Marco once. Marco thought he was an idiot, but just in case he was being serious, he trudged to the front door.

He never knocked. He had a key on his keyring. He would unlock the door, let himself in, announce his presence (even if Mario supposedly already knew), and trot through the house until he found his lover - usually on the couch eating cookies and watching rubbish. But this time… was different. He left his keys in the pocket of his light jacket, and raised his hand to knock on the door.

The door swung open before his knuckles had a chance to touch the pristine wood. Mario wore a wider smile than he had earlier in the medical room, but it wasn’t as bright and genuine as Mario’s smiles had always been in the past. “I knew you were here,” he said, ushering Marco inside.

Well, at least that wasn’t different. Marco didn’t verbally respond. He entered the house, walking past Mario and through the entryway. He heard the door shut and the lock click behind him. Then Mario’s heavy footfalls followed him toward the dining room. “Food’s in the kitchen,” Mario announced, and Marco detoured silently to the large kitchen.

Marco had never understood why Mario saw fit to buy a house with such a large, fantastic kitchen. He never cooked a thing besides toaster tarts, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That can’t even be considered cooking. Marco, however, had gotten a lot of use out of the state of the art appliances. He cooked many a meal for he and his lover, and quite a few for their friends when they came to visit. He had missed cooking in the beautiful kitchen. His kitchen was much smaller, and the appliances weren’t as fancy. “Are you ever going to tell me why you bought this house with this kitchen you never use?” he asked though it was hardly a relevant question. He should have been asking why Mario had been avoiding him for almost two weeks, but there would be time for that later, he supposed.

Mario chuckled, and grabbed the food from the counter to bring it to the small table for two in the breakfast nook. Marco’s kitchen did not have a breakfast nook. “I bought the house because it has a giant master bedroom and bath. The kitchen just came along with it.”

“You’re an asshole. I would kill for this kitchen.”

Marco took a seat at the table and watched as Mario began to remove cartons of Chinese food from the takeaway bags. Marco would have known that’s what he ordered even if he hadn’t been able to smell it upon entering the kitchen. “You’ve definitely used it more than I have.” Mario stood still for a moment with a container of rice in his hand. He didn’t move and he didn’t say a word. He just stared off into space. Marco wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps he was remembering one of the many meals he had prepared and they had shared here. Mario finally snapped out of his trance, and placed the box of rice on the table. “This takeaway is kind of an insult to your meals, I guess,” he muttered.

Marco nodded, but didn’t say anything. This was all too different, too weird. The nausea returned. He had a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. He stood from his chair. He always sat in the same chair - the one opposite the window. If he allowed Mario to sit opposite the window, the younger man got distracted by the outside world and missed entire conversations. Marco walked to the refrigerator - a massive thing with far too many compartments for Mario. He rarely had more than a jar of jam, a carton of questionable eggs, and beverages. Marco shook his head at the empty refrigerator, pulled out two bottles of water, and walked back to the table.

“I was going to get a bottle of wine,” Mario said when Marco returned. Mario also had a wine room that - at last Marco checked - stored exactly three bottles of wine. The man lived in the most pointless house.

“I wouldn’t want you to uncork one of the three precious bottles,” Marco joked. “Especially when we have training in the morning. Wine gives me the worst hangovers.”

“We’re having one glass with dinner, Marco, not getting drunk.”

“We’re having Chinese takeaway. We don’t need wine,” Marco argued with a laugh.

“I want wine!” Mario snapped.

Marco’s eyes shot open wide. He opened his mouth, but found that he couldn’t speak for a moment. He narrowed his eyes, and gritted his teeth. “Fine, go get it,” he muttered.

Mario left the room without another word. Marco got some plates down from the cabinet, and silverware for Mario who never had been able to master chopsticks. Mario returned a minute later with a bottle of red wine. Marco detested red wine, but he kept quiet. He watched as his boyfriend took down a single wine glass and filled it. He stood in front of the sink, and drank the entire glass. Marco swallowed hard. Suddenly his mouth and throat seemed as dry as the desert. He uncapped his water, and chugged down half the bottle. The ice cold liquid made his throat ache and he grimaced. Mario filled the glass again before returning to the table with the glass in one hand; the bottle in the other.

“Mario, is something wrong?” Marco thought it was finally time to get down to business.

Mario slumped into his chair, and sipped his wine. “Let’s eat,” he suggested in a low, meek voice.

“I’d rather talk.”

“Can we just eat, Marco, please? I’m starving!”

Marco nodded. He stood again to serve the food. He used the silverware he brought over to scoop out bits of each dish onto their plates. He gave himself tiny portions. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he could eat anything.

Twenty minutes later found Marco cleaning up the table while Mario poured his third glass of wine. They had barely said three words to each other during the meal. That was different. Usually, Marco could never get Mario to shut up during dinner, or any other meal for that matter. Marco placed the leftovers in Mario’s fridge and returned to the table. “Maybe you should stop now,” he suggested, grabbing the bottle of wine. It was nearly empty.

“Just fill this back up.” Mario pushed the half-empty glass toward Marco.

“Mario, you’ve had enough, really.”

“Marco, just… please. Maybe you should have a glass too.”

“I hate red and you know it.”

“No, it’s… it’s the kind you liked. Remember, we went to taste wine on our last anniversary and I made you try it. Remember? It was the only one. You said, you said it was one of a kind, just like me and I said… I said you were stupid.” Mario brought the glass back to his lips, and tipped it back. He gulped down the liquid that remained, and then placed the glass back on the table. “You’re not stupid, Marco. I’m the… the stupid one. Fill it, please.”

“Mario…” Marco sat and scooted his chair close to Mario. “Tell me what’s going on. Just talk to me.”

“Drink…”

“I don’t want it! Just talk to me.” Marco stared into Mario’s eyes. They were hazy. He was nearly drunk. He had never been able to hold his liquor. “Tell me what’s wrong,” Marco whispered. “Whatever it is, we’ll work through it.”

Mario shook his head, and grabbed for the wine bottle. Marco held it back out of his reach. “Not this,” he mumbled. “Not this. We won’t…”

Marco felt vomit rise up in his throat. He gulped it down, and stood up from the table. He walked to the sink and poured the wine that remained in the bottle down the drain. Mario started shouting about the expense, but Marco ignored him. He dropped the bottle into the sink, and turned back around. “Did you cheat on me?” he demanded.

Mario’s face twisted. “I… no. Why would I do that?”

“Are you lying?”

“No…”

“Then, we can get through it. No matter what, we’ll get through it. Talk to me. Are you… Are you sick?” Marco’s mind was running everywhere to get away from the thought that was chasing him. He knew what was wrong. He knew it, but he wasn’t going to admit it.

“A little,” Mario said. Marco’s brow furrowed. “I think I drank too much. Or maybe it was the pork…”

“Mario…”

Mario crossed his arms and placed them on the table. He lowered his head and rested his forehead on his forearms. Marco slowly walked toward him. He was a couple of meters away when he heard the distinct sound of Mario crying. He felt the pain behind his eyes that signals oncoming tears. He fought them back and knelt by Mario’s side. “Mario… what is it?” He gently squeezed Mario’s bicep.

Mario sniffed and raised his head. “I…” Tears streamed down his perfect cheeks. Marco’s eyes finally released the tears he had been fighting to hold back. “I’m leaving,” Mario finally admitted.

“W - what?” Marco had known. Deep inside, he had known, but hearing it… hearing it felt like getting kicked in the ribs. His heart ached like it was being crushed.

“The rumours… they’re true. I’m leaving.” Mario was sobbing now and his body shook.

Marco shook his head. “No.” He refused to let this happen. He refused to let this be true.

“It’s being announced tomorrow,” Mario sobbed.

“No! No!” Marco stood, still shaking his head. “No! You can’t. You can’t do this to me. You can’t, you can’t do this to the club. Why would you? You can’t…”

“It’s for my career,” Mario justified. He stood, wiping his eyes.

“Your career?! What about me?! What about your loyalty to the club? What about…?” Marco had started to walk in circles without realizing it. He ran his hands through his hair. “No, this can’t be true.”

“I’m sorry, Marco.”

“Don’t!” Marco stopped walked and pointed a shaking finger in Mario’s face. “Don’t apologize to me. How could you do this to me, Mario? How could you leave me?”

“I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving Dortmund, Marco. We don’t have to…”

“YOU THINK I STILL WANT YOU AFTER THIS? YOU’RE SELLING OUT, YOU ASSHOLE. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO THE CLUB? HOW COULD YOU GO TO MUNCHEN? HOW COULD YOU?” Marco felt the blood rush to his face. His body felt like it had suddenly caught fire. He trembled all over.

Mario stood stunned in front of him. His mouth hung ajar. His eyes were wide, tears spilling down his cheeks.

Marco clenched his fists, and stomped away from him. He marched to the door, swung it open, and slammed it closed after he stomped out. He slammed the door to his car after practically falling into the driver’s seat. The trembling had become almost like tremors. He couldn’t drive. He put the key in the ignition and turned up the radio. The song was one Mario loved, one that Mario had made him love. He hugged the steering wheel, his forehead resting on it, and sobbed. He was broken.

***

The next morning, Marco woke up with a headache that he was sure would rival the one that came with Mario’s hangover. His eyes were red and puffy from hours of crying the night before. Not only had he cried himself to sleep, but he woke several times during the night crying. His dreams were filled with Mario. Mario dreams were usually his favorite, but these were more like nightmares. Mario laughing in his face as he waved at him from the window of a Munchen bus. Mario throwing the promise ring he had given him in his face.  Mario in a Munchen kit.

He called coach to say he couldn’t make training. He had never missed training before, but he couldn’t be around Mario and the rest of the team when the news broke. He told coach that his ankle had gotten worse, and he never questioned a thing. When the news broke, Marco was sure everyone would figure the real reason he stayed home, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He laid in bed all day ignoring his phone every time it buzzed. He knew a large amount of the calls and texts were probably from Mario. He didn’t want to talk to him. He didn’t know if he would ever want to talk to him again.

***

The morning after the worst day in Borussia Dortmund’s recent history, Marco was curled in a ball with his duvet over his head. The semi-final match was the next day, but training had been canceled. In lieu of the training session, Kloppo had scheduled a team dinner for that evening. There was dissention in the ranks, and it was his job to set things right. He was heartbroken as well, but he had to soldier on. Marco, however, wasn’t up for soldiering on. He planned to stay in bed until it was time for the team dinner. If it weren’t mandatory, he would have slept through it as well.

When Marco felt his bed shift, he thought he must be dreaming. He groaned and closed his eyes. The bed shifted again, and the covers lifted. His eyes blinked open. Mario was under the covers with him; his face mere centimeters from his. Marco’s eyes filled with tears. He wanted to shout and scream and hit him. All he managed was a breathless, “I’ll miss you so much,” before he choked on a sob.

Mario grabbed him and pulled his thin frame against him. He nuzzled his nose against Marco’s hair. It was soft, but still smelled of styling products - proof that Marco hadn’t left his house since he returned from Mario’s. Mario knew that he probably hadn’t even left his bed more than was absolutely necessary. He felt so guilty. He thought the guilt might eat him up. He kissed his head, and whispered sweet things into his hair. “I love you, Marco Reus, and I always will.”

Marco sobbed, and clinged to him. His tight little fists squeezed sections of his t-shirt like one might squeeze a stress ball. Mario let him stay that way for a few minutes before he finally pulled away. It was getting unbearably hot beneath the heavy covers. He pulled them off and gently laid Marco down on the bed. He kissed his tear stained cheeks and apologized a hundred times.

Marco said nothing. He opened his mouth a few times as if he wanted to speak, but only sobs came. Mario stood from the bed, and Marco looked at him desperately. “I’m not leaving. We’re getting a shower. You need it.” Mario shed his clothes quickly, and undressed Marco. Marco reluctantly walked with him to the bathroom.

When they reached the bathroom, Mario seemed to change his mind. Marco had just stepped into the large shower stall when he heard the bathtub faucet running. He stepped back out and looked to Mario for some explanation. Mario held his hand out to him. Tears filled Marco’s eyes as he took it. Mario pulled him close, and kissed the side of his head. He whispered another apology into his ear.

They stood there just holding each other while the tub filled with warm water. Mario added some soothing bath oils when it had almost finished filling. He let the water run a bit longer to mix the oils, and then turned it off. He climbed into the tub first, and motioned for Marco to join him. This was so painfully familiar that Marco started to sob. They had taken so many baths together like this. He lay back on Mario while Mario played with his hair and traced circles on his stomach. They talked about how their lives had turned out and what they wanted them to become. What would their lives become now?

Mario quickly got out of the tub. He was dripping wet. He grabbed Marco and carried him to the tub, carefully stepping in again. He sat Marco down before he sat, and then pulled Marco onto his lap. “I’m sorry for everything,” he whispered, playing with his hair. “I love you so much, Marco.”

“I love you too,” Marco whimpered.

After that, Marco retreated into silence. Mario whispered to him while he slowly washed his hair and his body. He told him things wouldn’t be easy, of course, but they would work it out. It was a business decision, a decision for his career. He didn’t want it to ruin his love life.

Marco never said a word. He let Mario help him out of the bathtub. He let Mario wrap him in a towel. He felt like he wasn’t even in his own body. He felt numb.

Mario had never been the one to clean things up. Marco had always taken care of everything, taken care of him. Not this time. He made Marco brush his teeth then he walked him to the bedroom, helped him dry off, and got him a fresh pair of boxer shorts. He even changed the bed sheets before he let Marco burrow back under his covers. With Marco curled up in bed, he walked back to the bathroom. He emptied the bathtub, put their towels and dirty clothes in the hamper. He walked out wearing nothing and went straight to the closet. Almost one whole side of the huge walk-in closet was his. He felt tears welling in his eyes as he looked at it. How would he ever clear all of this out? It would be too painful to take his things away from Marco’s things. They belonged together. He slid into a pair of boxer shorts, and allowed himself a few minutes to cry. Finally, he wiped his eyes, and walked out of the closet.

Marco’s eyes were closed, but he knew he wasn’t asleep. When he crawled into bed, his eyes fluttered open. “I thought you would leave,” Marco muttered, closing his eyes once again.

“No, I’m staying with you.”

“Stay forever,” Marco whispered.

“I wish I could.” Mario pulled him close again and kissed his cheek.

Marco tipped his head back and brushed his lips against Mario’s. Mario was surprised by the action, but quickly kissed him back. Marco kissed him with a little more intent, and pulled him closer. Mario knocked his knees apart, and slid his leg between his. Marco swiped his tongue over Mario’s lips. Mario flicked his out to meet it. Their tongues met and danced slowly. Mario slid on top of him, settling between his legs. Marco’s hands roamed over Mario’s back. He knew this might well be the last time they made love. Marco wouldn’t leave the club before the end of the season, but he wasn’t sure if he could stand being with him anymore. He kept that thought to himself, and focused on how it felt to have Mario’s hands and mouth all over him.

Mario sensed that Marco was setting them up for their last time. He wanted to protest, beg for more time together, but he kept quiet. That was a discussion for another day. He focused on making Marco feel good. He kissed him slowly and gently massaged his body. Marco barely made a sound, only allowing a few quiet moans escape his lips, but Mario knew he was enjoying himself. His boxers strained to contain his erection as it grew. Marco soon pulled them off along with his own. He stroked him slowly, working him up, making him moan properly.

When the stroking sensation disappeared, Marco groaned. Mario gently shushed him, and moved away from the bed to get the lube from the drawer. He brought it back and quickly prepped him. Marco said nothing, barely made a sound, until Mario slowly began to enter him. Maro groaned and squeezed his arms. Mario laid over on top of him and held him tightly as he rocked inside of him. Marco hugged him close, kissing him breathlessly. The ecstasy seemed to cloud his mind. The worries and sadness were chased away by the familiar closeness and love that he felt when he and Mario were together. He had never slept with another person, and he could honestly say he had never wanted to. Mario was all he had ever need or wanted. Being with him always felt so perfect.

As they lay together, breathing heavily, coming down from their orgasms, reality started to set in. Marco’s worries returned. His heart ached again, reminding him that it had been shattered by the man he had just made love with. He started to cry and Mario pulled him in again. “What am I going to do without you?” he sobbed.

“I’m not leaving yet, Marco. We have time.”

“It feels like you’re already gone.”

***

After that day, Marco refused to see Mario again. Mario injured his hamstring in the match against Real Madrid, and that made it easier to avoid him. He returned his house key to him, and had his clothing cleared out of the house and delivered to him. It appeared that things were over between them.

Then came the devastating Champions League final. Mario was unable to play, but flew to London to support the team anyway. Many questioned his support. Who exactly was he supporting? The team he was bailing on or the team he was joining? Marco questioned it as well, and he took the pitch angry. He didn’t play well, and he didn’t score. He had been to distracted.

He would have liked to leave the pitch as angry as he came to it, but sadness overtook him. Mario was in the dressing room when he reached it, and he crumbled into his arms. They left the stadium together, and holed up in a hotel together for the next three days. They spent almost the entirety of the short vacation making love. They only left the bed to eat and shower, and even in the shower they made love.

On their last night in London, Mario told Marco that he missed him. “Can we be done with this break-up?” he asked, playing with Marco’s fingers.

“Can we not even count it as a break-up? We’re going on five years together.”

“Even more if you count when we were kids,” Mario said with a smile.

“We weren’t really together then. We didn’t even really know what relationships were then.”

Mario chuckled. “We knew what kissing was though!”

Marco laughed, and kissed his lips. “I love you, Mario, always have, always will.”

Mario cuddled against him. He was quiet for a few moments, absently tracing circles on Marco’s stomach. “Even when I’m wearing a red kit?” he finally asked in a soft, trepidatious voice.

Marco sighed. “I’ll love you, but I’ll hate the kit.”

Mario got quiet again… “You won’t break up with me, will you? We can make the distance work, can’t we? You won’t leave me for someone closer?”

“Who do you think I’d leave you for that’s closer?” Marco’s tone was incredulous.

“I don’t know… Lewy, maybe?”

“Please,” he scoffed. “No, Mario. I’ve only ever wanted you. I won’t ever leave you.”

“I love you,” Mario whispered. He cuddled closer, hugging him.

Marco hugged him tightly and kissed his head. They lay together silently for a while. Mario thought Marco might have fallen asleep, but then he spoke. “Mario…”

“Hmm?”

“You think you’ll come back to me one day?”

“I’m not leaving you, Marco.”

“You know what I mean. Will you come home one day?”

Mario dodged the question by asking one of his own. “You think maybe you’ll leave home one day?”

Marco hesitated before offering an answer. “I’ve always felt like you were home, Mario. So, home is leaving me.” Marco cried for the first time in three days.

Mario shushed him, and held him, kissing him gently. “Oh, Marco. I’ll come back. One day, I’ll come back, I promise.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I hope you guys know that I love each and every one of you. If you like the fic, please don't hesitate to leave some kudos or comments. You can also leave a message in my ask box on Tumblr. Be as anonymous as you like if it makes you feel safer. :) I hope you all enjoyed this, and that you didn't cry too much! (I sobbed writing it)


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